by Karen Miller
Homb’s broad, leathery face creased in a wry smile. “We’ll manage, Your Grace.”
“There’s to be no talk of this. You understand?”
Homb shifted in his saddle to look at the other men-at-arms. Shifted back. “No talk of what, Your Grace?”
Feeling grim, Roric bent to pull the daggers from his would-be murderers’ unmoving chests. As Homb and his men busied themselves with their orders, he wiped the blades clean on the dead men’s hose, sheathed his own at his hip, then limped back to Aistan, still seated on the fallen, half-rotten log. Aistan took back his proferred dagger, eyes hooded with pain. The wound in his thigh was sluggishly seeping. He needed another bandage, something to staunch the blood.
Aistan read the thought. “It can wait, Roric. I’m not dying.”
Ignoring Aistan’s impatience, he took one of the dead men’s stripped off linen shirts and slashed it to bandages and re-bound Aistan’s wounded thigh, pulling an apologetic face as the man sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry.” Satisfied, at least for the moment, that Aistan wouldn’t drop dead out of his saddle between here and Eaglerock, he took a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and made himself meet Aistan’s considering gaze.
“So, my lord. Are you sure you still want me to wed with your daughter?”
“Roric, if you’d not put those curs down, then I’d be having second thoughts.”
“Ah.”
“This was not murder.”
No, it wasn’t, any more than the Harcians he’d killed skirmishing in the Marches were murdered, or Harald slowly sliding off the length of his sword. He was Clemen’s duke. The young men had attempted treason, the punishment for which was death. Everyone knew that.
And yet… and yet…
Aistan cursed. “You did not fail them, Roric. Those young fools failed you. You were their duke and they betrayed you. They betrayed Clemen.”
It seemed Aistan knew him better than ever he realised. “Then why does it feel as though I betrayed them?”
With another curse, Aistan pushed to his feet. “If you feel that, it’s because you’re a good man, Roric. Would I have stood with you against Harald, would I be offering you my daughter, if you were not?”
“Aistan, you thought Vidar was a good man.”
“And he was, in his way. But never did I think him as good a man as you.”
There was nothing he could say to that, not without destroying lives for no good purpose. Instead he looked at his hands, his killing hands, that had pushed those daggers home without a heartbeat’s hesitation.
“I find it peculiar,” he said slowly, “when I think back to the night we decided to abandon Harald. All of us declaring our fealty null because he was so poor a duke, a man no man of conscience could support. And yet, under Harald, the duchy prospered. No blistermouth. No pestilence. No rotting crops in the fields. Our traders were free to roam Cassinia as they liked. The treasury was full and Clemen had its heir. If Liam had lived, if I’d not failed him, or if I’d left well enough alone? He’d be a young man now. And perhaps Clemen—”
Heedless of his wounded leg, Aistan pushed him. “Enough, Roric. Harald was brutal. He had to be stopped. There was nothing but cruelty in him and he’d have raised his son the same. For Clemen’s sake, we did the right thing. You cannot regret it now.”
Oh, but he could. “You call Harald cruel, Aistan. And he was. But so am I. Even now my men-at-arms are disposing of those young men’s bodies with no more care than if they were dogs. Their families will endure agony, never knowing their sons’ fates.
“’Tis better they suffer than their sons’ attempted murder of you, made public knowledge, light a fire in Clemen to burn this duchy to ash.”
“And is that how I’ll sleep at night? Is that how we’ll sleep?”
“Roric,” Aistan tried to smile, “I’ll sleep because you’re living. I’ll sleep because they failed.”
Was that the answer? He thought not–but it would have to do for now. “We should go, my lord,” he said, clapping Aistan lightly on the shoulder. “Daylight trickles through our fingers, and you have an appointment with Arthgallo.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“You look plump enough to me, Your Grace. You and Lord Aistan. Aye, and the rest of Clemen’s council and its barons and your men-at-arms and the rich folk you choose as your friends. D’you think the people of Broadthorpe don’t know how things are done in Eaglerock?”
A heated, disdainful accusation. Such resentment on the mayor of Broadthorpe’s face. Dining with Master Blane and Ercole in the merchant’s lavishly elegant Eaglerock townhouse, Roric couldn’t help but wonder, yet again, if he’d not wandered far astray. The dining room’s walls were hung with finest Pruges tapestries. Exquisite hand-woven Osfhar rugs graced the polished oak floor. Carved alabaster and carnelian horses pranced along one sideboard. So much wealth in one small chamber. Was Jarvas right?
“Your Grace? Is something not to your liking?”
He blinked away the vivid, discomforting memories of Broadthorpe. Forced himself to smile at his host, as though his life were sweet as roses. As though he’d not scant days ago, daggered to death two misguided and desperate young men.
“No, Blane. ’Tis all most pleasing.”
“Good, good.” Blane gestured at a servant. “I’d have you taste this tarragon chicken, Your Grace. The recipe is new, in from Lepetto.”
The chicken was served. He tasted it. Said something vaguely complimentary, though in truth he could be eating charcoal and not know the difference. He’d hardly slept since returning from Broadthorpe. Cudrotham Wood haunted him. Just as Liam’s death still haunted him, and the death of that unknown child in the exarchite hospice. Vidar’s death. Lindara’s. The death of their monstrous babe. His nights were crowded with wailing ghosts. Was it any wonder he feared to sleep?
“Your Grace.” Blane set down his dainty knife on the table. Sent the servants from the dining chamber with another curt gesture. “While ’tis always a pleasure and a privilege to host you beneath my roof, I must confess I asked you here tonight with a wider purpose.”
He sat back. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.” Blane picked up a napkin, dabbed creamy sauce from his flaxen beard. “But I’ll let my goodson unfold the mystery. Ercole?”
Ercole swallowed his mouthful of wine, hastily. “Some time ago, Master Blane confided in me concern over whispers he’d been hearing from various sources in and around Eaglerock harbour–and abroad.”
“Whispers?” Roric sipped from his own wine-filled goblet. “Touching upon what subject?”
“Many subjects, Your Grace,” said Blane. “But alas, all with one theme. How venturing to do business with Clemen might prove hazardous to health.”
A sharp pain came to life behind his eyes. “In what way hazardous?”
Ercole fiddled with an emerald ring, so that its smoothly planed facets caught the candle light. “Unjust imposts. Lawless roads. Corrupt men-at-arms. Judicial thieving. And other suchlike tales.”
“That is untrue. All of it.”
“Most of it,” Blane said gently. “But the little that is true has been grossly distorted.”
“By whom?”
“That is a tricky question to answer.”
“But I believe the reason is simple to see,” Ercole added. “Someone wishes to hurt Clemen, and you with it. And, from what my goodfather tells me, there has been some success.”
The pain was pulsing in time with his fast-beating heart. “Does this someone have a name?”
Blane shrugged. “We suspect Aimery of course. Balfre. I’m sure that comes as no surprise. But the matter proves less straightforward than that.”
Of course it did. “How so?”
“Well…” Blane smoothed his beard. “At first I dismissed these whispers as the sour complaints you’ll hear in any dockside tavern, or where merchants of different stripes gather to share news. But when the whispers persisted, I took it up
on myself to make enquiries. I am uniquely placed to do so, I’m sure you’ll agree. Your Grace, there is more than one common theme at play here.”
“Your Grace…” Ercole leaned a little across the table. “We’ve discovered that these damaging, ill-founded rumours sprang to life in the Marches. Out of the Pig Whistle Inn.”
The Marches. Humbert. Roric drank more wine. “How long have you and Master Blane been pursuing this, Ercole?”
Ercole and Blane glanced at each other. “Some four months, Your Grace,” the merchant murmured. “I’d beg you not to look harshly upon my goodson for keeping silent. ’Twas at my insistence. As you well know, I’m a cautious man. It has taken years for my trading ventures to recover from the storms that have buffeted Clemen. I was in no rush to upheaval them.”
Ercole was shaking his head. “Master Blane seeks to protect me for his grand-daughter’s sake. He loves my wife dearly and would not see her suffer for my misjudgement. The truth, is that I share responsibility for not speaking of this sooner. You bear so many burdens already, Roric. I was reluctant to mention anything without more than vague whispers to show you.”
Because he was tempted to empty his goblet in one swallow, Roric nudged it out of comfortable reach. “I see.”
“There is something else.” Ercole folded his plump hands on the table. “I’m sorry, but I think you must know. When my goodfather told me of the Pig Whistle’s involvement, I wrote straight to Lord Humbert and asked him to make enquiries of his own. Being Clemen’s Marcher lord he is best placed to uncover the truth of this mischief.”
“Humbert has said nothing of it to me, Ercole.”
“Nor has he answered my requests. Which is why I do mention the matter to you here and now, privily. There is much history between you and Humbert. I’d not stir trouble in open council.”
And here was another of the great reversals in his life–that he could be taking earnest counsel from Argante’s indolent half-brother, while the man who’d helped raise him, had loved him like a son, now languished in exile, swirled about with dark doubts.
“Ercole…” Roric looked up. “Do you suggest Lord Humbert conspires with Harcia against us?”
“I suggest nothing. But, as I said–I thought you should know.”
He didn’t want to hear this. How could he even suspect Humbert of such treachery, let alone believe it? And yet had anyone told him that Humbert would one day lie and cheat and torment his own daughter to make her a duchess, inveigle a good man like Arthgallo to lie and cheat for him, place his own desires and ambitions above Clemen’s interests…
“Go to the Marches, Ercole,” he said curtly. “Speak with Humbert. Whatever the truth is here, I’d know it.”
“’Ware, my lord! Behind you!”
The warning came half a heartbeat too late. Humbert shouted in pain and anger as the sell-sword’s blow thudded across his back. He heard his leather doublet split, felt the iron rings of his mail bite through wool and linen into flesh.
“Cockshite!” he bellowed, and on a pivot drove the hilt of his sword into the Sassanine’s tattooed face. Sell-sword blood spurted and the turd crashed to the muddy ground. Another pivot and his sword was plunging through the turd’s throat. He pulled it free, sweat and blood slicking his face, stinging his eyes. A blink, a headshake, and he could see again. More trouble. Stepping over the sell-sword’s twitching body, he turned a little and drove his shoulder into the back of another Sassanine about to dagger one of his men. It hurt like fuck but the sell-sword went down. Before he could catch his breath, his man-at-arms had finished the task.
“Lord Humbert! That’s all of them!”
Four sell-swords. Four corpses. An anxious check of Clemen’s men-at-arms–and he could smile. Every one of them still on his feet. Some blood, some bruises, but no limbs lost, no bellies slit, no throats cut from ear to ear. Groaning, he braced a fist on his thigh and bent over, let the red haze of battle drain out of him like blood.
“My lord! Are you sore hurt?”
And that was Egann, sliding a hand under his elbow, helping him to stand straight. His spine cracked. His head spun. The back of his shoulder was on fire.
“Don’t fuss, man. Do I look dead to you?”
Egann grinned, his teeth ghastly in a mask of red. He had a dagger-slash across the bridge of his nose and into his right cheek. “My lord, you look doughty. But take a breath. We’ve time.”
Did they? He wasn’t so sure of that. Huddled on the side of the muddy road, three Harcian spice merchants clutched at each other and stared in horror at the spilled blood and the dead sell-swords and the sharp blades of the two Clemen men-at-arms holding them under guard.
Stupid cockshites. What were they thinking?
Humbert fished beneath his doublet and mail for the tail-end of his linen shirt, pulled it free, and wiped the worst of the blood from his blade. Then he shoved the sword back in its scabbard and stamped through shallow puddles to the merchants.
“You.” He jerked his beard at the gabblemonger who’d spoken for all the merchants when they were first challenged. “Care to reconsider showing me your trading papers?”
“I can’t,” the spice merchant said, quavering. “Your slaughtering men-at-arms frighted our mules! They’ve likely bolted themselves to broken legs and the ruin of our wares. This is a disgrace. I protest—”
Humbert bared his teeth. “You protest? Cockshite! It’s Clemen protesting here, you scabrous, pissing pizzle. You brought sell-swords into the Clemen Marches. And that means you dragged them with you all the way here from Eaglerock harbour!”
“We had to!” the merchant shouted. “Everyone knows Clemen’s unsafe these days. Lawless men riding the highways, lurking about inns and hostelries, cutting throats with no fear of capture or justice. If Baldassare’s pirates weren’t plundering every merchant galley and Sassanine grain ship they could sink we’d not have set foot in your pestilent duchy. We were protecting ourselves. We’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Nothing wrong?” He could’ve struck the shite. “You broke Marcher law. No swords here but those worn by a lawful man-at-arms. And don’t tell me it wasn’t deliberate! Look where we are.” Despite the pain in his shoulder, he swept a pointing finger around them, at the encroaching straggle of trees and the rough, rutted road. “Half a league from the main trader road through the Marches. You thought to creep your way past my men-at-arms like rats in a pantry.” He jutted his beard. “Your mistake. When I’m through protesting you’ll never trade through Clemen again. Egann!”
Egann joined him. “My lord?”
“Send a man to find these pizzles’ mules. I doubt they’ve gone far, roped together.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He looked again to the merchant, whose face was turned the colour of spoiled milk. “The sell-swords. I know they were Sassanine. Where did you hire them?”
“A tavern,” the merchant muttered. “In Eaglerock harbour.”
Oh, Roric. “Well, I’ll not be fouling Clemen soil with rotting sell-sword flesh.” A glance at Egann. “Tie the bodies to the mules after you find them. These pizzles brought them here. They can take them away.”
Gasping, the merchants exchanged horrified stares. “You can’t do that!” cried the gabblemonger. “The blood–it might ruin our spices!”
“Do I look like a man as gives a witch’s tit for your spices? Find yourselves an exarchite house in Harcia and leave the corpses there. Those grey miseries like to be charitable.”
The gabblemonger merchant shut his mouth. A little wisdom, far too late.
“Egann.” Humbert turned his back on the anguished Harcians. “After what happened in Bell Wood there’ll be a stink on this like a bathful of old fish guts. I want their trading papers. Once you have the mules, the papers, and the bodies tied to the mules, escort these cockshites safe into the Harcian Marches. Balfre can worry about them after that. Then you can leave the men to their business and bring the papers to me at the manor.”
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Egann nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Unless—” Belatedly, he took a second look at the wound in Egann’s face. “D’you need leeching first?”
“No, my lord. I’m doughty.”
He clapped Egann on the arm. “You are that. Go on, then. Why are you still standing about?”
When it came to skirmishing, Clemen’s Marcher horses were trained from first handling to shift out of reach of swords and daggers once their rider was dismounted then wait to be caught. Humbert retrieved his stallion from the nearby woodland, hauled himself wincing into his saddle, and made his bad-tempered way back to the manor.
“Lord Humbert!” Ffolliot, the manor steward, gaped in horror as he came in from the stables. “What–are you–should I—”
“Peace, man,” he growled, stripping off his bloodstained gloves. “Most of the red’s not mine. Send down for the barracks leech.” He tossed the gloves onto the comfortably shabby hall’s sideboard. “And to the kitchen for something hot. Killing sell-swords stirs the appetite.”
“My lord,” Ffolliot said faintly. Fastidious, he retrieved the gloves and held them like a housemaid dangling a dead mouse. “Should I not send a boy to seek Izusa?”
She was certainly sweeter to the eye than Greyne. But he wasn’t near to dying and besides, the barracks leech was at hand. “Greyne will do. He’ll find me in the dayroom. Bring me some food there and a fresh shirt, doublet and hose, then don’t disturb me after.”
Leaving Ffolliot to mutter unhappily under his breath, Humbert retreated, aching, to the equally shabby dayroom. Ffolliot was known to mutter about that, too, but he had no patience for frippery. The manor was his barracks. He’d not spend Roric’s scant treasury coin on nonsense.
He was partway through a bowl of hot mutton pottage when Greyne arrived. The barracks leech was no Arthgallo but he did well enough. They were all much the same, leeches and healers and bone-breakers. Never content lest they were causing a man grief.